So I looked up
Saint Val, just to inquire, just why he’s the Saint of love we admire
It seems that not
much did he do on this day; I’ve checked Wikipedia, he just passed away
They can’t even
decide if he’s one Saint or two; really and truly, you’d think that they knew
Nor is there a
hint of his favourite obsession, did he grow roses; was that his profession
Was his middle
name Hallmark, or perhaps Interflora, or did he float ‘round with aphrodisiacal
aura
He must have been
clued up on marketing stuff, ‘cause in the third century, investment was tough
And his kinfolk caught
on, and set up some stalls, with flowers and chocolates to hock to us all
So now every year
we do spend lots of money, to buy things to give to our wannabe “honey”
Anonymous
flowers, what’s the real point in that, if she thinks that they came from Dick
Whittington’s cat
Abandon the
games, forget the deceit, walk up to her now, throw yourself at her feet
Tell her ya love her,
say it right from the heart; but if she says “where’s my flowers?”, that’s not
a good start
Take her to
dinner, buy her a drink, get a few in ya, tell her what you think
About her blue
eyes and her figure and stuff, but keep it polite, til she’s had enough
And after you’ve
dined, walk her back through the park, and stop in a place that’s comfortably dark
Do whatever it is you share in your minds, but please do be careful, don't
leave your manners behind
But it’s hard to keep
going, on Valentine’s Day, when you look in her eyes, and she just looks away
Lucky you didn't
waste money on Lindt, with your success rate, you’d quickly be skint
Give it a miss,
try the footy, a dance; don't give up this day for that thing called romance
There’s three
hundred and fifty more days in the year, so on February 14, of women steer
clear
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